I know the formations when I had your face close to my lips. voids went flickering with aerospace dissolved in the hymns of my carrot eyes I tore up the blatant sky that rummage your body and your smell, for I sleep with my eyes dipped in your presence. Soft balls of cotton inside thundering […]Temptation – Devika Mathur
There is a way to eat fruits.
The bites, cuts, peeling discloses a lot about the process,
about manifestations, prayers.
The layers are a cryptic code,
defining a particular gender.
What do you name Oranges?
A blossom of Goddess or the sweat of a man?
The tender skin hides the juices
of fervor and desires
step 1: Do not gulp it easily, it might choke you.
Step 2: Observe the underlying dots & thickness of the zest.
Step 3: Divide it into a group for easy naked observation.
Step 4: Rub the Albedo.
Step 5: Open the part and drink the nectar.
( Do not hesitate to sprinkle the skin on the face)
the flavoring chemicals begin to revolve
& this is how it falls inside your mouth
with a sky of teak words,
creating lust with teeth.
There is a way to eat Oranges
with harmony dancing.
Inspire after reading Figs- D.H Lawrence
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Cities left like empty vases,
a spot once full
Run, run, run
to the places unknown
hiding beneath the carcass of nature,
Sit, observe and run
to the places that are quiet now.
Learn from the two-fold mystery of God,
they do it like a yard spinning.
Do not fear,
this pool is a rubber band,
the more you stretch, the more it shall get you.
Clench the fist of the thing you see next now,
yes, a rope,
but do not stop.
you have to live like a sussurous hymn.
Wrote after the super cyclone- Amphan.
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I do not write today to hold the things leaking
or to slip across the rooms with fever.
I do not write to mourn the sunburn of humankind,
the lips are already pale, i do not wish to write another metaphor too.
Things that have way, will escape anyhow
and so is my today’s poetry.
It has no sense maybe,
no remorse floating
but i must assure you, I do not write to hold your breath even.
I announce I am rather happy
you might feel my imagery too strong
for I use things too harshly
for i use things in a weird Ethiopian mimic
But the mind does not halt
it will shout
and then you will have
some iterations again, too many fancy laces spread.
Your mind will be inundated with countless meanings of it
you will turn everything to me
for i am the one producing,
in ways only unknown here
It is Summer here
the sun will come up and soak in my leaflets
the scribbled ink
the detached sonnets from a stranger.
Everything will die
and yet I might not speak of it
for my words are too fancy for you.
Published On Silver Birch Press
Through the Front Door
by Devika Mathur
I have a wooden structure that looks after me,
a thick shield of elastic worries,
a poet’s mind locked inside the carving,
I often stare at my front door with a madness slapping across the air,
the room stands empty with a fever of different music
and a lullaby of painted comfort stands there
disguised as this door.
My left arm often collides with the knob,
strange to me, I see myself through different holes of the door,
I eat my sins as I perceive my mind through it.
This door talks to me during vacant nights
I remember a visitor coming once and praising the carving of this front door,
I did not listen to any of it
I had my own notion of things floating through its hole,
the swollen memories of the past, the bruises I had, the velvet dreams…
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I imagine the day like a face of a woman,
the mornings so much defined
with exposures and brightness,
polaroids of crimson sky
and the heaviness comes like her mind,
i can paint this lady on my canvas,
yawns in the afternoons,
watching the food vividly left in the kitchen
she knows nobody
but a raisin stuck to her mouth
The flower would lust water by evening
and the lady would nurture it,
each color so distinct,
each seed – a subservience
each leaf unfolding unique stories
by night, light fades away
into a shade of something darker
of gentle strokes disappearing
flooding her mouth, her memories with aesthetics.
The heaviness puts her arm into a state of nostalgia
a perfect blend of papers & ink.
But then we know how things end
with a flustered love for trees,
half filled glass of all things love.z
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branches/ twigs entangled
between the phosphorous skin of ours.
Circles of slow breaths
deeper of magenta blush
The months become cold.
fever rushing through veins
& chills of hypnosis
against the walls,
on the kitchen slab
we spread our colours
while the black night absorbs our love
through the static throat
then, then, then,
here on your pencil neck
only to watch the mornings again
constant motion, blurring the hands in the sun.
And just like that
between the chorus of the bruised sky,
I slip my set of auburn love.
Sediments of galaxies and rivers
entwined between my outgrown fingers.
Seduction is a way of swimming across your mind, half awake.
These tall trees
perform tensions, fiction,
and a layer of loneliness shifts to the sea of the blank river,
I slide my head against your chest,
the ivory garland of future seasons,
the whistling of galaxies
Bluebells swinging in the thunder of our sheets.
My body shuddering like a torn cloth
arms howling in the wild air.
We lick each other,
a chant for dripping lust
and here I become full and warm.
It is past April
empty corridors of dreams
and I swell upon the memory of
READ MORE OF MY WORK-
My work on Spillwords was published here.
of moment so despair
a thing i learn about a crooked poetry
my face a sudden elastic string.
these moments stich a corollary upon my backbone,
stripes so painfully black.
an ache to put metaphors with,
Madness unleashed from the boundaries of my skull
red, uneven, scathed,
women in my room speak of pain more than the patients in the hospitals
a deep blue sapphire cotton pain
The air wet and humid
of tears and sickness
a dead sky lies under my lids.
I remain quiet, numb, observing like a child.
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Earlier I wrote every day about almost everything
now I do not.
I wait for the paper to drain all the sorrow.
The filtered content then goes under the lens,
where I try to bake a muffin.
Read more of it here.
My tongue is learning to spell a new word.
floating like a small bubble.
across the streets
it echoes in children’s voice
it is stuck in my grandmother’s throat
a sharp cry leaves her lips
inside we know,
it’s the end
but somehow we pretend it isn’t.
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